Amastris to the Imperial Palace. A young man whose health, then, and mental equilibrium, are unmarred by the struggles that have bowed and cicatrised his illustrious forebears. Our father was disgraced before our eyes, a small man made smaller. Your father, in no little part due to the efforts of your Holy namesake and myself, is now a Droungarios of the Imperial Fleet.’ Michael’s father, Stephan, a former ship tarrer, was married to Joannes’s sister, Maria, and had proved his lack of military experience by taking a severe pasting from the Carthaginians in the waters off Sicily. ‘You share in your father’s glory, and of course you bask in the reflected radiance of the Imperial Dignity; though the diadem does not rest on your head, it is close enough to accrue to you a station and consequence that most men would deem themselves the idols of fortune to enjoy, even after a lifetime of dedicated labour.
‘Now let us consider what you have done, Nephew, with these gifts extended to you in such profusion that it burdens my tongue simply to enumerate them. Yes.’ Joannes nodded and placed his huge hands on the document over which he had been working. ‘Young Michael Kalaphates, after a fitful education in the Quadrivium in Nicaea, where he was more familiar with the actresses and prostitutes of the city than with his mentors in mathematics and rhetoric, proceeded on to Antioch, where under the aegis of his Uncle Constantine he embarked upon his military training. Yes, and dedicated he was to his new profession, assuming that one believes a besieged city might be relieved by a roll of the dice, or a fleeing army turned by the sight of a racing chariot and its team of four. For indeed Michael Kalaphates learned little of the arts of warfare but is widely considered the Levant’s foremost expert on sporting contests and games of chance.’ Joannes’s fingers drummed the table in a heavy, padding, ominous motion. ‘Well. Let us bring the brief tale of Michael Kalaphates to its conclusion.’ Joannes’s eyes seemed completely shrouded in their deep, sunken sockets. ‘Michael Kalaphates, having been bludgeoned senseless in front of the Empress’s carriage, is fortunate enough to hitch a ride upon the cart of a Tauro-Scythian bandit. He is invited to the Empress City to enjoy his undiscovered celebrity, which he quickly squanders earning his own reputation as a tomcat, spendthrift, dilettante, petty speculator and drunken idler.’
Joannes suddenly stood, and Michael reflexively jerked his chair back towards the door. ‘You who were carried in a silken litter into the blazing light of the Imperial Diadem have already crawled off into your own shadow of iniquity!’ Joannes’s voice was like proximate thunder, and as his face darkened, the deep hollows of his brutish, distorted face seemed to become as black as his frock. His huge, spreading arms made him look like a great vulture about to enfold his hapless nephew. Michael’s eyes were bright coals stoked by terror.
‘Let me tell you now how I might deal with you.’ Joannes’s tongue slid over his lips. ‘I could dispatch you to Neorion this very moment, you snivelling milksop! They would bring me your skin before the sun has set, and you would no longer be in it! Ah, but seeing that such summary judgement might leave you with little time for repentance, I could ask that you remain in a windowless cell in the Numera until you expire from utter desolation. Or, should I feel particularly benevolent, I might request that your talents be employed in distant Baku, loading petroleum into barrels so that our warships are assured a supply of liquid fire. Then again, the monastic life might suit you. The cenobium at Mount Athos--’
‘Uncle, Uncle!’ Michael Kalaphates fell to his knees. ‘No, Uncle!’ Crawling on his knees, he manoeuvred round the writing table like a large, eager dog, grasped Joannes’s enormous black boots, and kissed them in supplication. The bluster about the Neorion and Numera and even Baku, Michael had identified as such. Mount Athos was quite another matter; his uncle would earn only the general approbation of court, church and city for having dispatched a prodigal nephew to a grim cell in an isolated community where his only companionship would be stinking, burlap-shrouded, prayer-chanting eremites. Neorion would in fact be preferable.
Joannes allowed Michael to wipe his nose on his boots for a few moments, observing that his nephew had spent so much time consorting with actresses that he had acquired thespian abilities of his own. Still, the desired message had been delivered. Joannes viciously kicked the nephew’s ribs. ‘Get away, scamp. Even your snivelling needs improvement.’
Michael returned to his chair. He rubbed his throbbing sternum thoughtfully. What did his uncle want in exchange for sparing him even a few years of poverty, chastity and, worst of all, obedience?
Joannes sat and appraised his nephew, wondering how many times he would have to whip this dog before it learned even a single trick. Still, Michael was energetic, clever, a natural dissimulator – all raw materials with which Joannes could work skilfully.
‘I would like you to assume a position of some benefit to your family. Certainly you owe us that much.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Michael sincerely. An office of some sort? Why, if it ensured his continued exposure to the … culture of this great city, why not? From what he had seen of men with official duties here at court, their interests were identical to his: horses, women, rich food and strong drink.
Joannes leaned back in his chair. ‘You have heard, no doubt, that our Imperial Father, your uncle and my brother, is not well. He has borne the burdens of state for so long, and so diligently, that in the confidence of our familiar sanctuary I confess to you that I fear for his life.’
‘Oh, no, Uncle. No!’ So, thought Michael, the common gossip can no longer be denied. And a pity it is indeed. Without an Imperial relation, even one who pointedly disregarded him, life would be so much more difficult here. Perhaps he would no longer be welcome at Argyrus’s.
‘Our splendid Father is not in imminent danger, of course, but we must be concerned now to relieve some of the burden upon him; otherwise we may indeed have cause to mourn our lack of foresight. We who are closest to him must now circle around him, and, like the columns that thrust up the celestial dome of the Hagia Sophia, take a share of the weight that encumbers and threatens to bring our magnificent Father plunging to the dust.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Michael wished his uncle would get to the specifics. Something ceremonial, perhaps. That would be more desirable. A chance to sport about with the Hetairarch and the Manglavite; even the crumbs from their table, metaphorically speaking, would soon sate one to glorious excess.
‘The position I have selected for you is that of Caesar.’
‘Caesar?’ Michael knew that this was the title of the Emperor of ancient Rome, but with the endemic inflation of titles in the new Rome, a Caesar might very well be the man who carted manure from the Emperor’s stables. Caesar? Either the title was in fact that insignificant, or it had not been used for many, many years.
‘I see you are not familiar with the dignity you are to be assigned,’ said Joannes, his shrouded eyes seeming to draw in light. ‘The Caesar is only designated when the Emperor, Basileus and Autocrator has not sired a purple-born heir. In the event of the death of the Emperor, the Caesar would succeed him to the Imperial Throne.’
‘This is Her Majesty’s galley,’ said Maria. The wind whipped at the black sable collar of her coat. Signal banners flapped in the rigging and the hull groaned slightly. ‘I am privileged to use it.’ Maria looked over at the group of a dozen servants, wrapped in heavy woollen cloaks, standing by the railing amidships. ‘Please excuse me. I must instruct them on the cleaning and management of the villa. It has been closed for some months, and many of them will be new there.’
Haraldr watched the Bucoleon Harbour recede with each powerful stroke of the bireme’s eighty oars. The city was incandescent, the lead roofs and marble revetments glittering like jewels in the glancing light of late afternoon. Gulls screeched as they descended to accompany the ship across the Bosporus. Chrysopolis seemed to float by to the right, a city splendid enough to dazzle the world by itself, and then the urban clutter gave way to elegantly spaced villas surrounded by groomed cypresses, and gardens rendered by winter into brown-and-grey geometric sketches.
A large, canopied, richly enamelled white skiff deposited Haraldr and Maria and six of the servants alongside the steps of a stone jetty; the skiff was quickly rowed back to the galley for the other servants and some supplies. The jetty crossed a narrow section of rocky beach and ended at an iron gate set in a stone wall; Maria’s chamberlain unlocked the gate. Marble steps covered with dead leaves climbed through a series of terraces to the entrance arcade of a large three-storey villa.
From the porch in front of the villa Haraldr could see grey, spiky orchards extending behind the house for some distance. They entered the house through a small, roofless atrium; a dead bird had fallen in among the leaves. A narrow hall led to a two-storey peristyle surrounded by gold-veined marble columns. An ornamental basin at the near end of the peristyle was drained of water, and the tiles were dirtied with dried scum. ‘It will take some time for the heat to circulate after the furnaces are started,’ said Maria. ‘I think it is warmer outside.’ She put her hand on Haraldr’s arm; it was the first time they had touched since the previous night. She guided him back out to the porch. They paused at a marble balustrade that overlooked the series of terraces. They were
